The sixty-year-old, born-and-bred Bostonian does a double-take. I assume it’s the sight of my mother, who so seldom visits, that gives Liz pause until she says, “Almost didn’t recognize you there, Miss Elle. As my grandkids would say, that top is lit. Or is itfire?” Her short brow scrunches in contemplation. “I can’t seem to keep up with all the new lingo.”
Mom laughs. “She does look beautiful in red, doesn’t she? To be fair, my daughter looks beautiful in everything she wears.”
“Agreed,” Liz says.
I roll my eyes from the onslaught of admiration.
“Before I forget! You received a tin of cookies.” Liz gets up from her wheely chair. “I put it in the mailroom.”
I tug on the too-tight fabric wringing my neck. Out of all the items Calanthe purchased, why did I have to grab the sleeveless turtleneck? “It’s for your granddaughter. For getting into BU.”
Liz stares wide-eyed at me. “How do you know?”
“I heard you mention it to Jorge before you two switched shifts,” I tell her, using a smidgeon of compulsion.
Liz blinks, then blinks again. “And you’ll never guess what?” Before I can even try to guess, she exclaims, “She got a full-ride!”
“That’s amazing.” I smile at the proud grandmother. “Pass on my congratulations.Andthe cookies.”
“I will.” She waves at Mom, who waves back.
As we slip out the revolving doors, Mom leans in to kiss my cheek. “That’s the girl I raised.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you knowexactlywhat I’m talking about, Elle.”
I do, but I positively hate being the center of attention. My spirit animal is definitely the moth.
“She loves you, by the way.” Mom blows her auburn bangs out of her eyes. “Says you’re the sweetest person in the whole building.”
“That’s easy considering the bores and bitches who live here.”
Mom hikes up one of her dark eyebrows.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to curse.”
My mother shakes her head at me, a smile biting the corner of her mouth.
As we walk toward the black SUV, she asks, “How have you been, sweetheart?”
“Um, great. Super.” I stop myself from adding one more qualifier.
“What are you wearing?” Dorian’s question snaps me out of my musings.
“Clothes,” I deadpan, as I take a seat in the back.
Dorian turns further around and presses his sunglasses to the top of his head as though the lenses were playing tricks on him. “Whoseclothes?”
“Myownclothes,” I say, as Mom climbs into the passenger seat.
“That color makes you look…”
“Like a fire hydrant?” I finish for him.
Dorian shoots me a droll look. “I was going to saydifferent.”
“What are you two discussing?” Mom closes her door, not bothering with a seatbelt.
